The Life of a Misunderstood Pest

For Those Who Only Ever Wanted To Feel

It begins with soil.
Dense, damp, heavy with memory.
Every inch alive with what was left behind.

The nematode drifts beneath it, drawn to warmth.
A thread of breath, soft and seeking.
Its body curves through the roots like a question,
never asked aloud,
always waiting for an answer.

It reaches without hesitation.
Presses into the tender places—
not to harm, to feel a sense of belonging.

The root quivers.
The plant pulls away.
Even so, it lingers.

There is no language for wanting this deeply.
Merely closeness in the hope that something will remain.

It remembers the way roots once held it.
How the earth once parted to make room.
How hunger became a kind of prayer.

It coils through the hollow places.
Wraps around what is fading.
Cradles what remains.

Above, the world names it unworthy.
Unseen. Unloved. Unwelcome.
Beneath, it keeps moving.
Carries every root that softened in its presence.
Sings to the quiet.

Pressed by the weight of memory.
The shape of longing, pressed into the dark.
In the echo of having stayed.
Left with the ache of having loved everything that pulled away.

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This is a life born of quiet.

A breath that wraps around what fades, holding on even when the world turns away.

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